Breaking the Cycle: Reimaging Social Welfare with Cheryl Mays

“Systems create rules to protect systems,

not to help people… “

       In the heart of Northeast Ohio, where gray gloom and dusty rust-belt figures meet systemic issues, Cheryl Mays, MSW, LSW, sits across from me in her modest office. As founder of The Parent Engagement Center, she embodies a rare combination that’s only found in a few around these parts: a former insider turned revolutionary advocate who has witnessed the social welfare system from every angle – foster parent, biological parent under investigation, and now, a fierce champion for family preservation. But before we get into Cheryl’s story, let me share a brief origin story about the welfare system so you have a better understanding. 

The conventional narrative of American social welfare begins in the late 19th century with the Settlement House movement and the rise of “scientific charity”– another pseudo Western false social and academic practice with the goal of disenfranchising, removal and the theft of birthrights, and disbanding communities of color, be it Black or otherwise.  However, this glosses over crucial earlier contexts – particularly the systematic dismantling of existing Indigenous (Black) social support systems and the exploitation of enslaved peoples’ communal care networks. It is important to note that “enslaved peoples” also included what we currently recognize and refer to as “the majority” given their status upon entry into North America. They were forced migrants – prisoners, criminals, and the impoverished subjects of social systems within serfdom societies were bound to a specific plot of land owned by a lord. When you examine it deeper, the American system of slavery was almost a carbon copy of the serfdom system, requiring people to work the land in exchange for being allowed to live on and cultivate a small portion. They were essentially lacking all liberties and freedom, subject to their lord’s will regarding many aspects of their lives. Upon arrival to North America, they shared close quarters with those enslaved here in these lands. Indigenous communities which had been conquered by other tribes, some who were often in collaboration with their new European allies, found themselves in the same predicament as the newly arrived white immigrants. 

Social work as a profession emerged during the Progressive Era, ostensibly to address the poverty of free peoples. Those still enslaved were not affected. Many of these early programs explicitly aimed to “civilize” and “Americanize” communities deemed “problematic” by a growing dominant white Protestant society. Settlement houses, appearing slightly later in America, came about to provide valuable community services, often operated with paternalistic assumptions about cultural superiority.  The role of racial classification in the history of social welfare is particularly significant. Historical records show considerable fluidity in how racial categories were applied in early America, and a system of confusion and despair came about. This was by design. The terms “black,” “colored,” and “Indian” were often used interchangeably in colonial and early American documents, suggesting these distinctions were more administrative than biological. This fluid categorization served specific legal and economic purposes, particularly regarding land rights and exploitation, theft of birthrights, labor exploitation, and the violation of treaty – the supreme law. 

These historical dynamics continue to influence modern social welfare systems. Contemporary child welfare policies, welfare reform initiatives, and social service delivery models often reflect these same patterns of cultural disruption and community control today, with the same goals as mentioned above. For communities seeking to reclaim their autonomy, this history isn’t merely academic – It provides crucial context for understanding how to navigate the current systems and identify the patterns of control and dispossession. Which brings us to Mrs. Mays, a life-long social worker, family woman, and community advocate.

“Systems create rules to protect systems, not to help people,” Mays recalls her former boss’s words with a knowing smile that barely masks her controlled indignation. The statement reads like a prophecy fulfilled, especially when considering the historical parallels between today’s child welfare system and the notorious “Indian schools” of the 19th century – both predicated on the presumption that certain communities cannot adequately raise their own children.

When I probe about the economic underpinnings of the system, Mays’s eyes light up. “Poverty is the greatest business funding this country,” she declares, describing how she once received nearly $3,000 tax-free monthly as a foster parent for six children. The figure is striking when juxtaposed against the minimal support offered to struggling biological parents – a disparity reminiscent of the post-Civil War era when institutional support systematically favored separating families over preservation.

“What’s particularly insidious,” I observe, “is how the system seems to perpetuate itself through arbitrary standards.” Mays nods, sharing the story of a mother who believed she was providing a balanced meal with “bologna, potato chips, cookies, and Kool-Aid.” Rather than condemning this mother’s understanding – an understanding that’s seemingly deemed okay if you look at all the advertisements and items marketed and made available to children – Mays employed a revolutionary approach: meeting parents where they are and building from there.

The conversation turns to her personal crucible – when her five-month-old daughter showed symptoms consistent with Shaken Baby Syndrome, making Mays the “default perpetrator.” The experience crystallized everything wrong with the system: its presumption of guilt, its racial biases, gender bias, and its cookie-cutter approaches to complex family situations and dynamics. 

“A white mother tells me about her son falling ten feet at a construction site – hospital visit, no questions asked. But let that be ‘Bonquisha from the hood,” she exclaims, her voice carrying both wisdom and weariness. “All her children would have been removed for creating an ‘unsafe environment.”

This judicial inequality echoes historical patterns of systemic racism, where discretionary enforcement of laws has consistently disadvantaged communities of color. Yet Mays’s approach offers a compelling alternative: instead of removal, she advocates for in-home support and cultural competency in intervention.

“The parent who thought potato chips and bologna was a balanced meal – that’s not a sign of neglect, that’s a sign we’ve failed to provide adequate education and support,” she explains, highlighting how poverty and lack of resources are often criminalized as parental failure.

The implications of Mays’s work extend far beyond individual family intervention, however. Her Parent Engagement Center represents a paradigm shift in how we conceptualize family support services, particularly in communities that have historically been marginalized by institutional systems.

“When I started the parent support network in 1999, I was breaking rules that shouldn’t have existed,” Mays reflects, describing how she would secretly contact parents whose children were in her foster care – a practice now recognized as beneficial but then forbidden. “Parents were getting case plans but no support. Foster parents got training, children got therapy, workers got supervision, but parents? They got isolation.”

This systemic isolation of biological parents mirrors disturbing historical patterns, from the forced separation of Indigenous families to enslaved families to the contemporary mass incarceration crisis – a theme that is long overdue for eradication, not unlike so many other failed and biased systems which have been implemented throughout the American experience and removed. When I point out these parallels, Mays leans forward, her professional demeanor momentarily giving way to passionate advocacy.  “Look at how the system handles parent education,” she explains. “We’re still operating on theories based on ‘dead white men’s research on dead white men,’ as my professor used to say. How can we expect that to serve our communities? Heck! They can’t even serve their communities effectively, and never have.”

Her innovative “Parenting My Way” curriculum represents a radical departure from conventional parent education models. Instead of imposing middle-class, Eurocentric or other standards, Mays’s approach validates existing cultural knowledge while bridging gaps in information and resources. As she puts it, the “Common Sense Approach.”

The results speak volumes. Where traditional programs might label a parent “non-compliant” for missing appointments, Mays asks about bus schedules and childcare. Where others might see defiance in a teenager’s behavior, she sees normal developmental stages complicated by systemic pressures and intentionally designed barriers.

“We’ve criminalized poverty and pathologized cultural differences,” she states, echoing criticisms raised by social justice advocates from Jane Addams to Dorothy Roberts. “The system needs complete reimagining, not reform.”

As our time winds down, I ask about hope for change. Mays gestures to a wall of family photos – success stories from her practice. “Change happens one family at a time,” she says. “But it has to be real change, not just repackaging old biases in new language.”

In an era where calls for systemic transformation echo across America, Mays’s work offers a blueprint for genuine reform – one that recognizes family preservation isn’t just about keeping children with parents, but about sustaining communities and challenging the very foundations of institutional inequality. But it also begs the question: is reform possible where poverty and lack of education and awareness prevails? Those affected must be able to have a certain level of agency over their own lives before challenging a system that has had a head start at controlling and manipulating them, right? 

The conversation takes a profound turn when Mays leans back, her eyes flickering with recognition of a deeper truth. “What we call a ‘system’ isn’t really a system at all,” she asserts. “It’s a business of control, desired societal outcomes, a continuation of colonial practices dressed up in modern bureaucratic clothing, with even some of our own so-called educated community members being misguided themselves, complicit in their actions.”

This perspective resonates powerfully with me, and the historical patterns of institutional oppression. Mays references a growing movement of people researching their bloodlines through ancestry studies and DNA, uncovering uncomfortable truths about identity and belonging that challenge conventional narratives about African American origins, further challenging the systems in place. 

“We’re seeing people wake up to the fact that what we’re dealing with isn’t just bias – it’s structured dispossession and theft of the identities of whole communities, the structural organization of something like this has to be global when you think about it, right? ” She explains. “When you realize that welfare itself was an endowment from the Crown, and not some lofting socio-political buzzword like some would wish it to be, you have to ask yourself: why would the wealthiest nation need such an endowment, particularly for Black women, unless there was a debt to be paid or something else at play?” Mays makes quite a profound observation. The implications are staggering. Through this lens, the welfare apparatus appears less as a broken system needing reform and more as a mechanism functioning exactly as designed – to maintain control over communities that might otherwise reclaim their sovereign rights and lands.

“Look at how they respond when parents start organizing,” Mays observes, citing recent grassroots movements in Cleveland where families have begun creating their own support networks outside institutional oversight. “The pushback is immediate because self-sufficient communities threaten the very foundation of their illusion of authority.”

This resistance to community autonomy echoes historical patterns, from the dismantling of Black Wall Street to the COINTELPRO disruption of the Black Panther Party’s community programs. Yet Mays sees hope in the growing awareness among younger generations, and not just hope but action amongst some.

“We’re seeing parents start to question everything,” she says, her voice carrying the weight of historical perspective. “They’re asking why their parenting methods, passed down through generations of survival, are suddenly ‘abuse’ when labeled by outsiders who’ve never walked in their shoes.” The solution, Mays suggests, lies not in reforming existing institutions but in communities reclaiming their traditional methods of child-rearing and family support, but also with some self analysis. She envisions a future where community-based organizations, led by those who’ve lived the experience, replace the current paradigm of institutional intervention. “Liberation starts with recognizing our own authority,” she concludes. “When we stop seeking validation from systems designed to subjugate us, we can begin rebuilding what was taken – our families, our communities, our sovereignty.”

In Mays’s vision, the path forward isn’t through incremental reform but through radical reimagining of community power structures, starting one family at a time. It’s a vision that harkens back to the Black Panther Party’s survival programs while pointing toward a future where communities determine their own definitions of family wellness and child safety.

The Parent Engagement Center stands as more than just a service provider – it’s a beacon of resistance and hope, a model for community self-determination, and a reminder that true wellness requires more than just breaking chains placed in our hearts and minds; it requires rebuilding what was destroyed. She ends with, “If it ain’t broken, don’t fix it.”

by Kimberly Larkin